Quiet Prayers and Candlelight
by limegreenwordmachine
Summary: Mihael Keehl takes a moment to reconcile with his past and future.


**This is my first Death Note story. I'm not sure if it's any good or if you'll like it, but this idea started bouncing around in my head about a month ago and it wouldn't stop until I wrote it. I figure now's a good time to publish it, considering it's Christmas Eve.**

**Merry Christmas, everybody!**

_And in despair I bowed my head_

_There is no peace on Earth, I said._

**~ I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day**

**By Casting Crowns**

The building was relatively plain, plopped in the middle of the town square (he didn't know people still hung out in squares). Simple white walls and a steeple atop a green roof. The Christmas lights twinkled, many bulbs burned out or cracked, but somehow it managed to look very comfortable…welcoming.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot in a sanctuary. When he was very, very young, most likely. But something in his stomach and his head (and his cold fingers; the night was rather chilly) pulled him to open the heavy green doors, as silently as possible, and step into the warm, candlelit room. Organ music piped from a balcony, and suddenly a hundred voices hit him full force.

_Silent night, holy night_

_All is calm, all is bright._

The song was familiar, of course. But there was something about the sound of hundreds of people of different ages and backgrounds and colors and makes and models and cuts all joined together, if only for tonight. It made him long to curl up in one of the pews and bunch his knees up by his chin and stay there in the warmth.

And so he did. He left the doors and found an empty seat in the back of the crowd, hunching over on himself in part due to the lingering cold, and in part due to the bone-deep sadness seeping through him and out, out into the candlelit sanctuary. As he stopped for that hour, it gave his ghosts time to catch up with him.

The first, a hunched young man underneath a mop of dark hair, with the weight of an entire fallen world on his shoulders and overwhelming sadness just behind his black eyes.

The second, a snow-white boy sitting in a corner, ignoring or failing to care about the swelling pressure and hate around him, who might one day be as hunched and sad as the first.

The third, a crying girl with dark brown hair matted with days of filth. Banging against the clear walls of a cell, isolated from all human contact.

They ceased singing and told the Christmas story, in different parts by a young boy with freckles, a blonde woman in a flowery skirt, and an old bearded man. They told of redemption and hope for the world, come through the baby in the manger. They related the story of the shepherds and the wise men and the angels.

Did even he deserve redemption?

Could someone who'd hated and killed and kidnapped ever be forgiven?

He supposed that if he could be granted forgiveness, now would be the time to start looking for it.

After all, he was going to die soon.

He buried his head in his knees and let a tear slip from his eye to the edge of his nose to his boot to the hardwood floor. A baby cried somewhere in the front.

"Sir?"

"What?" He looked up, hastily scrubbing at his eyes with gloved hands.

"The service ended fifteen minutes ago." In front of him stood a girl of about twelve, with brown eyes and neat brown hair. She hadn't yet quite grown out of her childish features.

"Oh." He stood up, noticing that the candles had been extinguished, and the electric light had been flipped on. The spell was broken.

"Are you lost or something?" She looked suspicious. "The way out is that way."

"I'm aware," he replied bitingly. Her eyes widened, and the girl looked like she was about to burst into tears. "No…wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

She nodded and began pattering back to the front of the room. He fought back an urge to call out again, and failed. "Wait. I have a question for you."

She turned around, expression softening. "What is it?"

"Do you…uh…"

She raised her eyebrows. "Spit it out."

"Do you think there really is forgiveness for everyone?"

The girl nodded vigorously. "Yes. I do. Why?"

"Even…what if there were a person who'd done some really terrible things. Like…kidnapping, for instance. Or murder. Could he still be forgiven?" His expression remained hard, but something in his voice changed. He could hear himself…pleading, almost.

She looked at him with a peculiar expression. "Yes," she said. "That's the point of forgiveness, isn't it? You don't have to live with those things anymore." She turned away once more.

"One more thing."

Oddly enough, she didn't seem to be ruffled at being further detained by a complete stranger.

"What about Kira? Could he be forgiven?"

She stopped dead. He noticed a stray bit of candle wax at the left knee of her jeans. She raised a thumb to her mouth – probably echoing a childish habit of sucking on it. It reminded him of one of the ghosts. Her young brow scrunched together, deep in contemplation. "Yes," she said suddenly. "I think that if Kira really regretted what he'd done, even he could be forgiven."

Mello felt a weight rolling off of his chest. If even Kira could be granted peace, then surely so could he. "Thanks."

"Anytime." She grinned, displaying a slight gap in her teeth. "My name's Ally."

"My name is Mel—Mihael. I'm Mihael."

"Cool name. Here, I want you to have this." She dropped into his palm a small silver heart on a chain. "Just in case you ever forget. It'll remind you there's still hope for you. I don't know, I guess I just feel like I should leave you with some-"

"You're not scared of me at all, are you?"

"Why would I be scared of you?"

"I've…done some scary things. I'm talking to you and you don't even know me. I don't know."

"You don't look scary," she said. "You just look lost."

He closed his eyes and took in a breath. It was funny how a precocious young girl could look past all the leather and the hard surface and see something he'd barely noticed – that he was hurting. "Thank you, Ally. Thanks for everything."

She smiled earnestly again. "Merry Christmas, Mihael."

"Merry Christmas."

And before he left, he stopped to say a small prayer for the ghosts. He'd never prayed much in his life, and the instinct was rusty, but he spilled a few messy words for them anyway and hoped that someone was listening.

Peace on Earth.

Goodwill to men.

Merry Christmas.


End file.
